In the dark I have no shame
by LittleMissHotpants
Summary: But he was always watching his step; it was like he was walking a tightrope high above the city and if he put even a foot wrong he'd go tumbling down into the traffic below. The falling metaphor made him think of 'the fall' so he stopped that train of thought and instead picked up his pipette full of hydrochloric acid.


_This is my first Sherlock fanfiction and I'm kind of nervous about it. I haven't wanted to do Sherlock because it means a lot to me and I really don't want to screw it up. But I did it and I'm kinda happy-ish with it. I mean, not completely but it's not a complete load of bull poop I think (hope). Anyway, I'm not making this sound good so I'll shut up. Thanks._

_Disclaimer: No, I do not own Sherlock. Do you really think I'd be sitting here if I did, bro?_

_Important note: Both characters are OOC but that's on purpose. I doubt they'd be completely themselves after pretending to die/thinking your friend is dead. So yeah, that's my reason. _

* * *

The first three weeks after Sherlock's return were spent in silence, a thickening cloud of silence that just kept getting denser as each moment of silence ticked by.

Sherlock got the distinct feeling that the silence was filling his lungs, it felt like he'd breathed in sand instead of air and it was coating his lungs- the little grains stacking up until it felt like his lungs would just explode from the pressure. He felt like the silence sand was running into his blood stream, mixing with his blood and making him so much heavier. Like the sand was forming an anchor that was pitted at the bottom of his stomach and dragging him down through thick layers of ocean.

John got the distinct feeling that the silence was a flame that was licking its way down his windpipe, snaking its way around his lungs and twisting around his veins. He felt like the fire was growing and would soon turn all his organs into ash, the ash sinking to fall at the bottoms of his feet. John knew that it took between one and two hours for a body to turn to ash- minus a few teeth and bones- but that was if a body was being burned from the outside in. This fire was inside him, right at his core, and if it burnt its way out John thought that it'd take a lot less time than that.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John had always hated clocks. Annoying bastards.

* * *

John won't look at Sherlock any more. The last time he'd looked at him was when Sherlock arrived at his door. He'd given him a once over- Doctor John, Sherlock realised, and he really wished his Blogger John would rear his beautiful head- and then nodded to himself before retreating to his room, leaving the door open.

Sherlock took it as an invitation to come in, but he realised soon that it was only an invitation extended to a guest. Like John had flipped over an egg timer the moment Sherlock walked through the door and when time ran out, Sherlock wouldn't be accepted in 221B Baker Street for a single second more. An invitation _inside _but not an invitation _home. _Sherlock should have expected it, but he hadn't.

Sherlock's slowly forgetting what Blogger John looks like and he hates it. Doctor John peeps his head up sometimes, when he knows Sherlock hasn't eaten or slept for awhile. As much as Sherlock prefers Blogger John, Doctor John is alright. At least Doctor John cares.

Most of the time it's Soldier John now and he hates Soldier John the most.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock had always hated clocks more. Arrogant little idiots.

* * *

John first speaks to him on the Thursday of the fourth week. He still doesn't look at him, but it's an improvement to the silence. Sherlock doesn't know which John it is until he turns away from the kettle where he'd been making a cup of tea. His back is rigid. So it's Soldier John.

It's almost always Soldier John now.

"Sherlock..." He breathes out his name and it sounds different than it usually does. It sounds almost unfamiliar on John's lips, like he hasn't said the word for a long time and it makes Sherlock's heart- the heart that he still doesn't fully believe isn't made out of metal, a robotic heart for the man that was always called a machine- drop to his stomach.

"Yes, John?" Unlike John's tone, Sherlock's voice is surprised and confident. Like the word 'John' was an old friend that he hadn't seen for a while but automatically fits right back into the place where it left when it went away. Like no matter how much time passes, the word will always fit. John will always fit.

"How could you have left me?" The words seem to take John by surprise, suddenly Blogger John popped out and Soldier John isn't happy. Soldier John coughs awkwardly and says instead, "Forget it."

Soldier John picks up his tea, nods to Sherlock and leaves the room.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John got his first watch when he was ten. He never wore it.

* * *

John spoke to him again two weeks later. He just stormed into Sherlock's room without even knocking and placed his hands on his hips. It was Soldier John again and Sherlock got the impression that there was no chance that Blogger John would be able to get past Soldier John this time.

"Tell me the whole story."

John knew said whole story. Had for a week prior to Sherlock's arrival. Mycroft had thought it best to tell him in advance, thought that Sherlock just showing up would give the poor bloke a heart attack. Sherlock hadn't liked the interference but had begrudgingly admitted that it was probably for the best.

Sherlock knew that he'd just be telling the exact story all over again- Mycroft wouldn't be one to leave out any gory details, after all he knew that John would be able to handle it.

He told it anyway.

Sherlock spoke for a long time, bordering on two hours, and John didn't speak once. He didn't even move once from by his spot at Sherlock's open door. After Sherlock was finished speaking John just nodded and left the room for the second time in a month.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock hadn't learned to tell the time until he was sixteen. No point up until then.

* * *

While the cloud of silence had a few dents in it, and the layer had thinned enough for it to be noticeable, it was still there. Turning Sherlock's lungs to sandpaper. Turning John into a bloody forest fire.

John would ask Sherlock how his day was, sometimes. Or tell him to go and buy some milk (and for the first time Sherlock actually did).

But while they talked sometimes- only ever small talk at the most, like they were strangers waiting in line at the bus stop- they never spoke about anything of importance. Sherlock hadn't really thought that the conversations of the _before time_ were really that important, but now that Sherlock was looking at that period from _right now_ he realised that maybe those conversations were more important than either of them realised.

"Sherlock, pass me the remote." And he did.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The only clock John had ever liked was the big grandfather clock at his aunt's. It was so big it didn't really seem like a clock at all.

* * *

Normality, or as close to it as things could get when everything is so bloody screwed up, settled around them around the twelfth week. Sherlock took a few cases- cases he only hadn't taken before because he wanted to make sure John didn't run away from him in the middle of the day. John continued going to the clinic and he occasionally went out with Lestrade or Mike or whoever else John chose to spend his time with- visits to the pub usually, but sometimes to other places that Sherlock didn't know about (John was becoming increasingly difficult to deduce and it was near _killing him_).

Some days they spoke, some days they didn't.

Sherlock started to do a few experiments again, started to hesitantly pluck at strings on his violin- only ever in the day time, always watching his step. He couldn't upset John, couldn't push him further into the cocoon he'd created for himself- and started to space out in his mind palace from time to time.

But he was always watching his step; it was like he was walking a tightrope high above the city and if he put even a foot wrong he'd go tumbling down into the traffic below. The falling metaphor made him think of 'the fall' so he stopped that train of thought and instead picked up his pipette full of hydrochloric acid.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock hated grandfather clocks; Mycroft had always liked them though. Maybe that was why Sherlock had always disliked them.

* * *

John had nightmares, Sherlock knew that. He had before he went (_went_: like he only _went _to the library, or _went_ to the supermarket) and he knew they wouldn't have stopped in the time they'd been apart. Sherlock didn't think too much of it. Not until the fourth month of his being home, when John's screams had been louder and he'd kept saying 'Sherlock' over and over again.

Sherlock didn't know how he got there, but one moment he'd been plucking at strings on his violin and the next he was standing outside John's door.

He'd pushed the door open and realised that John's nightmares had woken him up. John was sitting upright, his eyes shining due to the ribbon of moonlight creeping through a gap in his curtains and sweat coating his skin like a thick layer of sticky glue.

Their eyes locked and it was the first time that Blogger John was well and truly looking back at Sherlock.

Sherlock was hit so hard in his chest that he almost stumbled from the weight of how much he'd missed that John. Sherlock had known all along that Blogger John was better than all of the other John's, but he wasn't aware of just how much better until that moment.

Sherlock moved further into the room, slipping under the covers beside John. John didn't say anything so Sherlock thought it was safe to wrap the man up in his arms and rock them booth, his hands working soothing circles into John's back as he breathed out the words 'it's okay' over and over.

They both knew it wasn't, but John let himself pretend that it was.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John was always a person to watch the clock. Count down for things. Never happy with the moment he was in.

That's why he went into the army. No clocks to count down on, he had to break habits somehow.

* * *

They didn't talk the next day at all except for when John accidentally stood on his toe and he mumbled a 'sorry' underneath his breath. But that night when Sherlock heard John call his name all over again he went back to John's room and held him again like he had the night before. And just like the night before, John didn't push him away.

As John calmed down, his heart slowly beating at its usual rate instead of the accelerated version- the painful heart hitting ribcage version- of when he first awoke, John's eyes turned heavy. He closed his eyes, his cheek pressed into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt in a way that would cause crease marks on his skin the next morning. Just as Sherlock thought that he was asleep, he spoke in a very small voice.

"I kept counting the seconds until you came back to me, but you never did."

Sherlock felt tears stinging in his eyes and when he blinked them away they felt to join the streaks of sweat on John's forehead. "I know... I'm sorry. So sorry. But I'm back now. I won't ever leave again, John."

But John was already asleep.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock had never lived to the rules of clocks counting down his life. He decided when things finished and ended.

Time certainly didn't.

* * *

This happened more and more. John always awoke to an empty bed the next morning, but it was always so hopefully warm. Proof that Sherlock had spent the night there, even if he was scared to be there through to the moment when John woke up. They never talked about it, but they both knew. Just another elephant in the room between them that couldn't be spoken about. They'd soon have a whole herd standing in their living room.

Sherlock didn't know how many elephants their fragile flooring would be able to cope before it broke completely.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John hadn't counted time until before his army days. On Sherlock's return he started again.

He didn't know what he was counting down to, though.

* * *

It was one of these nights- the nights Sherlock called the 'Dark nights' even though they were starting to become the lightest part of his life now- and it was worse than the others. They'd started to fade slightly, flicker like the candle that was residing in John's heart, and Sherlock was scared he was going to lose his only times when he got to hold John. He knew it was selfish, he shouldn't want John to have to go through such horrors that it left a man sweating and crying, but Sherlock realised that John was making him even more selfish than he previously had been.

John usually only took less than an hour to get to sleep once Sherlock's long body was curled around his smaller one, breathing out painfully untrue comforts in his ear (they'd both have scoffed at the thought of Sherlock ever being the kind of person to do that a few months ago, but now here they were.) But now they were at hour three and John was still wriggling about. He was no longer sweating, but Sherlock knew tears were still leaking out from the corners of his eye like someone had forgotten to turn the tap all the way off so water still dripped down into the sink.

Sherlock rocked them both for most of this time, only ever changing their positing when his arm started to get cramp and he had to move them to another one. He stopped for short breaks to instead pull John tightly to his chest and just hold him there, breathing in the scent of John's hair- sweat and John's shampoo.

They hadn't talked for the whole time and for the first time since his return, Sherlock didn't mind the silence.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock..." John says at it's coming up to the three and a half hour mark. The words are quiet but they ring out as loud as a bell in the silence.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, John."

"I do, though. I really do."

John falls asleep an hour later, but it's a fitful sleep and Sherlock has to physically hold onto him for the rest of the night to stop John rolling off the bed and onto the floor.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock starts counting down for the first time the moment John lets him through the door.

He thinks it's until the moment John forgives him, but he's not sure.

* * *

The next morning they discuss the 'dark night' for the first time. John looks awful, he's sitting at the table with his head hanging low over his bowl of cornflakes and he speaks to Sherlock without looking up.

"About last night... I want to explain."

Sherlock doesn't say anything; he's scared that if he does John will cut himself off from him again.

"I'm sorry because... Because I can't forgive you. I know why you left me, I know it was to save us and I should be so fucking thankful. You saved my life Sherlock. Sherlock the hero, right?" He laughs, Sherlock thinks it's because he knows Sherlock doesn't believe in heroes and Sherlock did something that made him as close to a hero as they get. "But I can't be."

John looks up from his bowl for the first time, and it's Blogger John but it makes Sherlock's heart break all the same. Because Sherlock hurt Blogger John so much and he never should have done that. It registers somewhere in his mind that this is the first proper appearance of Blogger John in the daylight. It'd make him smile if he didn't feel like he was physically bleeding right then.

"Because in saving me, you killed me Sherlock. And I'm not like you; once I'm dead I can't just bloody bounce back up after and be alive again."

Blogger John seems to lose his courage then and gets up, clearing away his bowl of cereal and then he heads in the direction of the bathroom leaving Sherlock thinking that all their conversations seem to leave Sherlock sitting there watching John walk away.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John finds himself sitting in his room staring at the clock and wonders whether he's going crazy.

* * *

Christmas rolls around and neither of them are feeling particularly festive. But John puts up decorations anyway and Sherlock doesn't even sneer at them like he used to. It's at that moment that Sherlock feels like the sand hasn't just reached the top of his lungs, but it's filled every tiny cell of him and soon he's going to be just a sandcastle sitting on a lonely beach in Brighton.

Sherlock realises that he hasn't gone on a case since November and he hasn't thought about one at all.

John's starting to wonder whether maybe his prediction was wrong. Maybe burning a body from the outside really is faster. Maybe he should just douse himself in petrol and just light a bloody match to get it over with. It's being so damn slow and he isn't sure how long he can take flames spitting ash up his throat.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock watches as the seconds tick away until it's Christmas day. He wishes he felt differently when the date changes to the 25th but he doesn't.

He doesn't feel anything.

* * *

When it's Christmas day Mrs Hudson gives them both presents. Sherlock gets a ridiculous pair of hand knitted Christmas socks and an equally hand knitted scarf that turns out isn't actually so ridiculous ("_I know you like that old scarf of yours, sweetheart, but it's getting a bit worn."_) John gets a hand knitted jumper in the same colour as his scarf and Sherlock gets the distinct feeling Mrs Hudson did it on purpose and not because she 'couldn't find any more wool'.

Sherlock never likes Christmas and he certainly never likes _home-made _gifts, but this year he doesn't really mind.

Mrs Hudson doesn't stay long, she has to hurry off to see some friends of hers and Sherlock tries to pretend like he isn't disappointed.

Greg drops off a bottle of some fine whiskey for them both, but it's obviously more for John than Sherlock. Besides them they don't see anyone else that day and for the first time in his whole life Sherlock craves people. The silence in the flat is louder that day than any other.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John buys a new watch and actually wears this one.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't see John all of boxing day, but when Sherlock goes up to bed that afternoon after realising that it isn't healthy to stare at John's armchair for a second longer, he sees that there's a parcel left on his bed.

There's a scribbled note on it in John's nearly illegible doctor handwriting that says '_I know you don't want to clear any room in your mind palace for this, but if you ever do then at least now you have the information. Happy Christmas, yours John x' _

Sherlock feels like an idiot when his heart jumps painfully at the little 'x'.

He tears the wrapping paper off quickly and soon he's holding a book about the solar system and Sherlock just starts laughing. He's sitting there laughing hysterically in his room on his own, clutching the book tightly in his hands. He continues laughing for a further five minutes and when he finally stops he realises that he has tears pouring down his cheeks.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock buys a watch and leaves it on his bedside table so that he can watch it until he goes to sleep.

* * *

Mycroft kidnaps John three weeks after Christmas day and John is actually surprised by the whole event. Not in the 'first time kidnapping' way from the beginning, but surprised in the 'hey, this hasn't happened in a while' way. John should be pissed, but if anything he's kind of secretly the opposite.

Mycroft's standing under his umbrella in the middle of some random London street in the middle of the rain and John finds himself even more surprised at this than the kidnapping. The car pulls up to the pavement and Mycroft closes his umbrella before slipping into the car beside John and John has to shuffle up to let him inside. Mycroft places the umbrella down next to him and spends a few moments straightening out his trouser legs before finally turning to John.

John never thought that the two brothers looked alike up until that moment and John isn't sure why he chose that moment to really realise the fact that they did.

"John, I think that we should discuss my brother."

John isn't surprised, what else would he be here to discuss? The weather? Who they want to win X Factor this year? Who their favourite One Direction member is?

Of course they'd talk about Sherlock.

"What about him?" John says and Mycroft looks at him a long time before answering.

"I'm worried about him. He's more fragile than we all think. Sherlock's not unbreakable."

John wants to tell him that he knows that. That he knows he's the one that's making Sherlock weaker and more fragile at each passing day. But he doesn't. Instead he nods his head and turns to look at the raindrops slipping down the window.

"What can I do about that?"

"We both know what you can do, John. You can forgive him." And for a man who has such a larger intelligence than average old John Watson, he thinks that the man can be a complete and utter idiot at times. A lot of the time, actually. The way he says it makes it sound so easy.

"That's the thing, though. I can't." But John thinks that maybe he is.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John feels naked without his watch now and it's a weird feeling.

* * *

"My brother kidnapped you," Sherlock says when John walks through the door. Of course he knew, John knew that there wasn't any point in hiding it.

"Yes. I really think that your brother should learn some manners and arrange a meeting in the normal way. It's not like he exactly has to worry about his phone bill."

"He talked about me," Sherlock adds as he completely ignores John's comment. John rolls his eyes as he hangs his coat up on the hook.

"No actually, we had a nice discussion about our first kisses and braided each other's hair," John answers and Sherlock almost cracks a smile as he pictures that. He doesn't though, he doesn't actually smile until much later when he's sitting in his room and realises that's the first light hearted interaction between the two in all the time he's been back.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock never actually wears his watch. He feels like it's a secret.

* * *

It's three months later when Sherlock's lungs finally feel lighter. He thinks maybe some of the sand is draining out and it didn't come a moment too soon. Blogger John is there most of the time and Sherlock isn't surprised that it's causing a puncture to his lung that lets all the sand out. The only problem is the puncture it left behind. Nothing with John can leave him completely unscathed now. Even the good moments make him remember that this can't last forever. That this easiness has to end at some point.

John thinks maybe he isn't a forest fire, maybe he's just a little candle sitting on top of a birthday cake. Now all he needs is someone to blow him out.

Neither of them knew when things started to get better, maybe it's just time. Maybe time really did heal all wounds. Maybe not, maybe enough time had just passed that their wounds had scarred over and everything wasn't so fresh.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

John didn't wear his watch one day last week and he didn't notice until he saw it on his side when he got home.

* * *

John hasn't had a nightmare in a month, so Sherlock's nearly surprised when he hears noises from John's room one night. It's different to the other times, there's no screaming and Sherlock isn't sure that John even is having a nightmare.

Sherlock goes up to his room anyway.

For the first time Sherlock hesitates at his door, even that first night he hadn't hesitated. But Sherlock opens it anyway and he sees that John's awake. But awake John isn't covered in sweat and Sherlock realises that John never went to sleep to have a nightmare to wake up from. Sherlock moves further into the room anyway and he isn't entirely sure what he plans to do until he's actually doing it. Until he's actually pulling back John's cover and slipping in beside him.

He doesn't touch him to start with but somehow after a long time his hand finds John's. He squeezes it and John squeezes his back.

"I think I forgive you, now."

"You do?"

"I do."

They're silent for a long while after that, just holding each other's hands. John feels like maybe the candle is starting to be blown out. He realises that the candle's stump is still going to be left behind but then again, it's a small price to pay for having the fire put out. He can't expect to be left with no remains after a fire.

The sand long since left Sherlock, it left the moment John started to smile at him each morning. The puncture's there, but that's okay. He can deal with that.

"Do you think we'll be okay?" John asks finally.

Sherlock thinks about it, truly thinks about it, for a few minutes. John doesn't push for an answer because he knows that Sherlock is trying to come up with the best possible answer for him and for that John is thankful. In that moment he doesn't count time because he knows that his answer will come.

John is used to counting down these days, but in that moment he doesn't really care. Time isn't really that important. You might have millions and millions of minutes, or you might only have a few. It doesn't matter, though, as long as you know that at the end of that time there's something waiting for you. As long as you know that when the clock finally stops ticking there'll be something besides the silence that the absence of the ticking leaves.

"I think so. We've got this far, haven't we?" Sherlock finally says, and he knows that it isn't any earth shattering words of wisdom but he thinks it'll be enough. Neither of them ever really needed beautiful words, a lot of the time they never really needed words at all.

"Yeah... Yeah we have."

There's another pause and then Sherlock says, "We'll be okay. Just like the Earth will keep orbiting the sun and I'll keep orbiting you."

"You read the book?" John asks as he flips over to his side, looking up at Sherlock through the darkness. He watches his facial features for a second, watches the slope of his nose and the flutter of his eyelashes against his skin. He's hit with how beautiful Sherlock is and how he didn't notice it before.

"I read the book." And for some reason they both start laughing until they have tears coming out of their eyes.

Neither of them really use their watches after that.

* * *

_Okay so I'm not sure that I'm happy with this, I didn't like the ending that much and yeah. But I'd be glad to hear what you think (apparently I shamelessly beg for reviews now) so if you want to hit me up then you can. It'd be a pleasure to hear your feedback. Anyway, thank you for reading my lovelies. I think I need to go to sleep now. _

_Lucy xx_


End file.
